Beams

If thoughts grow the woods,
Then lines thread the lights

That pierce and edge words,
Leaf, root, stem, and branch.

Shades throw sun and moon,
Half shown, brought down, dimmed.

Shades are lights. The bright
Greens and golds that stir

In blue arms of shade,
The red flecks of blooms

On the brown and gold
Strewn floors of it all—

These are what the lines
Pull through the thoughts’ gloom.

The days, and, at times,
Nights, would be too bright

Were it not for thoughts
We grow to dim things,

But then these threads slip
Through the leaves and gleam.